Empathy
by Katica Locke
Summary: Reese has the ability to sense the emotions of other people. Begins with the events of the Pilot, now with 'bonus scenes'. 1st person POV, will be Rinch slash MUCH later.
1. Pilot, Part 1

**Author's Note:** So this a little different from just about every other fic in the fandom; you'll see what I mean when you read it. I don't know if I should continue along this vein, so your input would be appreciated. I'm not going to rewrite each episode in its entirety, although I haven't decided which scenes I do want to show. I think so many of them would be interesting from this POV. If you have requests for scenes, I'll certainly consider them.

I want to branch off from cannon eventually, adding new scenes and driving deep into Rinch territory, but I wanted to see what you guys thought. ^_^

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><p><em>When you find that one person who connects you to the world, you become someone different...someone better. When that person is taken from you...what do you become then?<em>

I try to find that answer in a bottle of Pure Rye whiskey, but I'm almost to the bottom of this one, and haven't found any answers yet. Maybe the next one. At least it dulls the pain, quiets the mind, and when sleep comes, maybe it will keep the dreams at bay. The gentle rocking of the subway train is almost enough to put me out, but I'm not alone, and the presence of other people keeps me on edge. They feel harmless enough; the three gang-bangers standing at the edge of my perception are just tired and bored.

Then the door to the car opens and trouble shows up. I don't have to be close enough to sense their emotions to know that they think they're hot shit and are looking to prove it. I try to ignore them as the lead dickhead goes toe-to-toe with one of the three, a kid flashing a pistol tucked into his pants. Damn, I don't want to get shot tonight.

The three are smart enough to walk away, though, leaving dickhead and friends to enjoy their spoils. Which apparently includes me. He approaches, radiating contempt and amusement, and I know this isn't going to end well. For him. He takes the bottle of whiskey tucked into my coat and I grab his wrist, my reflexes dulled a little by the alcohol, but my grip on his arm is tight enough to serve as a warning. He's unsettled and I let go, point made. He can have the bottle, though I doubt he's old enough to drink it.

I draw a shuddering breath as his unease turns to anger, a hot feeling against the inside of my skin, his contempt slippery as fresh mucus. He sets the bottle down; his friends come closer. I can feel all of them, their emotions like a cloud of gnats around my head, buzzing in my ears, making it hard to breathe. One of them lifts his shirt, going for the gun tucked into his pants. Stupid kids; it's a wonder they don't shoot their balls off.

I break his arm. One gets a knee to the gut, another an elbow to the face. Anger turns to confusion, pain and fear bleeding through, cold and sharp, like vinegar. I grab Mr. Bravado by the throat - Anton, I think they called him. Touching his skin, making physical contact with him, his emotions threaten to overwhelm me, like parasites invading my body. My chest constricts as he stares up at me, eyes wide, his fear so strong I can taste it - fear, shock, anger, regret, but no remorse. He wishes he hadn't fucked with me, but he's not _sorry_ he did.

I shove him to the floor and let go, breaking the connection. My head spins and I stagger, the pounding at my temples having nothing to do with the booze. Coming down from an emotional high is always disorienting, which is why I try not to make contact with people. Sometimes, however, it just can't be avoided. I sit back down in the hard plastic seats, pick up my bottle, and finish what's left as my would-be assailants writhe and moan at my feet.

The cops are waiting when the train stops - someone on one of the adjacent cars must have called. I try to leave, but they stop me, they try to send me to the hospital. I don't need medical attention, and I don't need their pity, thin and sour in the back my throat. I just want to leave. There are so many of them, so many emotions, a jumble of noise in the back of my head, and have to tune it out, tune it all out. I let them put me in the back of a police car, let them take me to a station, where it's quiet, at least.

They don't arrest me. They put me in an office, they give me water. I want something stronger, but I drink it. They're going to lift my prints off the cup, but I just don't care. I'm tired, so tired of everything.

A woman comes into the room, a detective, introduces herself as Carter. The minute she comes into range, I feel myself relax a little. She's curious; she hasn't already made up her mind about me. I feel sympathy, but not pity. She's trying a little too hard to be chummy, but there's an honesty in it that I can't completely condemn. This is her job, after all. And just like I expected, she walks off with my fingerprints. It won't be long now.

When the door opens again, it isn't for Carter, but some square-jawed lawyer with a six hundred dollar haircut who seems to think I have a diamond mine hidden in my beard. I don't know how else he expects me to pay him. I'm not going to argue, though, and we walk out of the station together. I thank him, but receive no emotional feedback from him. It's like he doesn't care, a feeling which is confirmed when he walks away without a word.

Waiting for me are two more men in nice suits. They give off the same emotional vacuum - they're just muscle, hired to do a job and paid enough not to care what it is. I consider walking away - the tall one has a couple of inches and fifty pounds on me, but neither he nor his friend are armed - but now _I'm_ a little curious. I get in the car.

They take me out to Roosevelt Park. It's just after dawn and I'm starting to sober up - two events that I rarely am conscious to enjoy, and I remember why that is. The wind off the water is cold as I climb out of the car and walk toward the lone figure standing near a park bench. He glances over as I approach.

He knows my name. Not my real name, of course, but the one that I've come to answer to most readily. It's enough of a surprise to stop me before I can get close enough to read him. He knows other things, too, things no one should know, and I don't like it. He doesn't look like an operative, but they'd be sneaky like that, sending someone who doesn't fit the profile. I walk closer; I need to know what he's feeling.

He raises a hand, like he's motioning me back, but he's not looking at me. I glance behind me, at the hired muscle who had been moving to intervene. They stop, but they don't look happy about it. I draw within range and am staggered by the wave of emotion that rolls off of him. I can't remember ever having met anyone who appeared so calm, yet hid such a storm inside them. It's a little hard to sort everything out, and I can only stare at him as he continues to speak.

He's nervous, a faint, tight vibration along the surface, but under that is a mix of desperation, grief, guilt, and shame. There's a secondary blend of frustration and anger, the kind I've learned to associate with pain of a physical nature, and almost lost within this raging tempest, there shines a faint beacon of hope. It's a strange emotion - hope. It sings, it dances, it burns brightest when the darkness is at its worst, but it's so fragile, it can be snuffed out so easily. What gives this man hope, in the face of everything else churning inside him? It intrigues me, as puzzles often do.

I'm fairly certain that he's not from the Agency, although that is only one kind of comfort. I still don't know who he _is_. His little spiel is very convincing, especially since I can detect no deception in him, but I'm not really interested in a job. Drinking myself to death sounds like a much better plan. Still, I get back into the car with him - it's a long walk back to the city and the wind is cold.

He moves with a limp and carries a tightness through his shoulders and down his back - some kind of neck injury, spinal and nerve damage, muscle scarring, maybe - and sits stiffly, though that may a symptom of his anxiety. It's greater now that we're in the confined space of the car and he makes no attempt at conversation on the drive. Neither do I. I'm distracted enough by everything he's feeling, that tiny spark of hope flaring bright as the sun, only to be damped down by doubt.

We arrive in the heart of the city, the sidewalk crowded as we exit the vehicle. He starts spouting data and statistics, like I need to be educated on what a dangerous place New York City is, then he delivers the punchline - that he alone, out of eight million people, knows what happens next. He points out a woman, tells me she's involved in something bad, and wants me to follow her. This is one of those times where common sense takes over, because even though it doesn't feel like he's lying, I can sense that he's not telling the whole truth.

I decline his offer. I'm even polite about it, until one of his bodyguards tries to stop me from walking away. There's a smug confidence about the man, no concern, no doubt. He thinks he knows me, knows what I'm capable of. He doesn't know anything. I don't hurt him too badly, but he and his friend are going to have matching headaches for the rest of the day. I disappear into the crowd, confident that it's the last I'll ever see of the mysterious Mr. Finch.

Manhattan is a good place to hide, but now that the cops have my prints and know my face, it's time to give up the homeless disguise. I was getting tired of the beard, anyway. I get a room at a cheap hotel and pay a visit to a nearby convenience store. And a liquor store. A shave and a haircut later and I can recognize myself again for the first time in over a year. Not necessarily a good thing, but that's what the whiskey is for. I nearly finish the bottle before I pass out.

The shrill ring of a phone jars me back to consciousness, like a knife in my skull. I reach for it, but something isn't right. My left wrist has been bound to the headboard, my fingers cold from lack of circulation. It's been a long time since I've woken up in a situation like this - disoriented, in a strange room, tied up - but the skills, the training that I've tried so hard to forget, it's like a reflex. I pick up the phone. The voice on the other end is familiar; it takes only a moment to place it. Mr. Finch sounds desperate, much more so than yesterday, or perhaps it only seems that way since I can't feel him. He hangs up and I'm left just as confused. I try to free myself, and then the screaming starts.

A woman screams in an adjacent room; a man tells her to shut up. There's crashing and thumping. Someone is being killed. I pull against the plastic restraint until it bites into my wrist, but it's not going to give. My heart is pounding in my throat. I look around; there's a mirror beside the bed - glass. I grab the lamp and swing it. The mirror shatters. The glass cuts into my hand as I saw through the plastic, but I barely feel the pain. Adrenaline is a wondrous thing.

The screams are growing short, ragged gasps punctuating the silences between. I can hardly breathe. I cut myself free and lunge across the room, jerking open the door between the adjoining suites. Throwing my shoulder against the inside door, it bursts open and I stumble, falling to the floor. The gasps and cries are right there, but I can't feel anyone. The room is empty.

I raise my head and find a speaker sitting on a table; it's a recording. _What the fuck?_ I scramble to my feet. There's an open door leading to another room; I can see someone sitting in a chair. I check the corners as I enter the room - there's no victim, no assailant, no bodyguards, just the mysterious man with the peculiar offer. He turns in his chair to look back at me, expression unreadable and emotions almost unbearable. I've only ever felt desperation like this from men pleading for their lives.

He tells me about the recording, the victim, and the guilt that bleeds from him is almost choking. Who is this man? What does he want? How does he know? Then he mentions Jessica. His words sting, like grinding sand in an open wound, and I don't think, I just throw myself at him, grab him by the shoulder of his suit jacket, my forearm across his throat, and I shove him backward, slamming him up against the edge of the door frame.

His fear spikes through me, sharp and acidic, my heart racing, face contorting as he grabs my arm, skin against skin feeding his surprise and panic right into my chest, making it hard to breathe. I could kill him, I could crush his windpipe and watch him suffocate, but he speaks of truth and lies, he offers promises I know he can't keep, but I feel no deception from him. He believes what he's saying.

He seems to know me so well; how can that be? He knows why I joined the service, why I went back after 9/11, what drove me to join the CIA, what kept me in so deep for so long, even after the doubts began. I wanted to protect people, trusting that my superiors wanted the same, a betrayal that cost lives and nearly destroyed me. I feel his grief and guilt, desperation and fear, and I let him go. I can't think straight with all his emotions in my head.

I sit down before I fall down, my stomach heaving, and this time the hangover is at least somewhat to blame. It doesn't help that my body is still reacting to the foreign emotions, trying to slough them off like an old skin. I try to focus on something tangible and immediate - I study the reel to reel electronics on the table in front of me. It's a wiretap recording, probably NSA or FISA, and I glance over at the enigmatic little man. I tell him that he's not government, but I'm not really sure, not until he confirms it.

It's harder to sense him now, all the bright colors and vivid tastes and smells and textures of his feelings are muted and dulled by pain. He moves stiffly, cautiously, taking one slow step after another. I hurt him. I could have killed him. He sits down near me and shows me that woman's picture again - what was her name? Hanson or something. He speaks with the utmost conviction and I find myself wanting to believe him. A chance to be there in time, to stop crimes before they happen, to protect people...

I regard him for a long moment, wondering if he really understands who I am, what I've done. He seems to have a lot of information, but does he really _know_ what it all means? I am not a good man; I am not a hero. I have done things that can never be forgiven or atoned for. Does he know that? Does he know that he's sitting in a room with a monster?

This ability that I have is something that I shared with my paternal grandmother. She called it empathy and taught me how to use it responsibly, not that I always have. Most of the time, I try to suppress and ignore it, but I can never make it completely go away. I can always pick up overflow emotions, the strong feelings that spill out of people in close proximity, but when I try, when I really focus on someone, I can reach deeper, I can sift through the myriad of ever-changing emotions that float beneath the surface, flitting through the sub-conscious. I do that now, like reaching out a hand to him.

What I find surprises me. He is many layers of the same elements - desperation, guilt, shame, remorse, anger, frustration, fear...and that tiny light of hope, flickering, wavering, like a living thing just clinging to life, fragile as the frost on a spider's web, as though at any moment it could crumble and cease to exist. I find almost nothing that he isn't consciously feeling. He must exhaust himself.

"All right," I tell him, looking back down at the picture, "I'll do it."

I draw back, raising my metaphysical walls again as that dying ember of hope explodes like a supernova inside of him, for a moment so blinding it eclipses everything else. Relief is the first thing to bleed though, such overwhelming relief, and gratitude, and joy. How can he feel so much and never let it show?

In addition to a couple of aspirin, he gives me time to shower and get dressed, and I use the time to consider everything he's told me without the distraction of another person's emotions in my head. He's obviously rich. Intelligent, too, probably bordering on brilliant. His desperation and relief speaks of an emotional investment, but I didn't get the impression that he knows that woman. Recognition always comes with a visceral, emotional label, but I'd felt nothing from him. So why does he want so badly to protect her? And what makes him think she's even in trouble? A list? What does that even mean?

This is too much of a puzzle for me to walk away. I need answers, and he's the only one who can give them to me. So I'll take the job, I'll follow the woman, and if I don't like what I find, if he's lied to me, if he's using me...I'll kill him.


	2. Pilot, Part 2

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much for all the reviews and feedback! It is so much fun trying to guess what the characters are feeling during this show, I found myself including most of the episode, even though I said I wasn't going to. I just couldn't bring myself to skip parts. In future episodes, I'd like to focus more on 'missing' scenes, like the fictional part of the conversation at the end of this chapter, and only get into key scenes, instead of rewriting the entire thing, but I want to hear what you think!

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><p>I've seen my share of safe houses and secret headquarters, but this is my first abandoned library. Mr. Finch seems right at home as he leads me inside and I feel his tension and worry scale down a notch from a six to a five. I wonder if he's always like this, or if it's my presence that has him so nervous. He's a wise man, if it is. I mention that I tried to dig up some information on him and his tension spikes, up to an eight or nine on the paranoia scale. He doesn't let it show, though. His control is impressive. As is the speed with which he ascends the stairs, considering the obvious stiffness in his leg and the pain that it causes him. He doesn't even use the handrail.<p>

A really private person? I want to laugh at both the irony and the understatement. He's broadcasting his emotions so loudly it's a wonder normal people can't pick up on them, but his face hides it all, even the pain in his body. I wonder how he intends to keep his promise to never lie to me when he clearly guards himself like a wolf guarding its den.

He gives me the basic tools of the spy trade - cover identities, credit cards, passports, money - and then I see his list, _The List_, covering an entire wall. Numbers, social security numbers, hundreds of them, each one with a pushpin and a piece of string leading to a newspaper clipping, an obituary, a photograph. When he looks at it, when he speaks of it, his shame, his regret is so heavy it hurts, and I can hear the grief in his voice. Then I ask where the numbers come from and his tension spikes again, colored by worry and a little fear. Whatever he's hiding, it's important to him.

I'm impressed by his intel; as good as most agency handlers'. He knows where and when to intercept the woman in question on her way to work and I get my first taste of her emotions as she passes by us coming out of the subway terminal. She's very calm and subdued, and it's hard to determine anything else with Mr. Finch blaring his feelings right beside me. I wish he'd have stayed at the library, but he offers decent information as we follow her across the street. The rest I'll have to learn on my own.

Breaking into her apartment, cloning her phone, and setting up wireless cameras to keep an eye on her is just the first step. I need to get a read on her. I fall into line behind her at the courthouse, but there are so many other people nearby, it's hard to sift through everything. I don't pick up anything out of the ordinary. The next time I can get close to her, she's just had a rather cold conversation with one of the witnesses for the prosecution, some detective named Fusco, and all I get as she walks past me is anger and annoyance.

A few days of stalking her, and all I know is that she's got guts, visiting Pope, the man she's trying to put behind bars, in lockup by herself. Her co-counsel, Wheeler, is acting shady and she doesn't seem to like him very much, and Pope's brother, Michael, doesn't want to talk me, but none of that gives me a damn thing to work with. I'm beginning to wish I hadn't given up drinking.

If things are as bad as Pope says, I don't like running around New York unarmed. I mention this to Mr. Finch and I feel every emotion inside him clench reflexively, like muscles tensing to protect an old wound. Once again, his knack for understatement is astounding. He doesn't like firearms the way most people don't like anthrax. Still, his feelings aren't going to keep me from getting shot.

Even as drunk as I was that night on the subway - it feels like months ago - I remember hearing that dickhead, Anton, mention picking up some new hardware. It doesn't take me long to track him down in the back room of some little convenience store, him and about six others. They don't recognize me - not surprising since I don't look like homeless Jesus anymore - but my sudden appearance makes them uneasy and confused, two things you don't want to feel in a room full of thugs.

They draw on me, but as a spy, you either learn quickly how to make people hesitate, or you die. The kid nearest to me is also the most scared, and I take advantage of that, pointing out that his gang-banger movie style is liable to get him killed, followed by a swift demonstration. I don't need to kill them - being dumbasses is not a capital offense - but I make sure they won't be causing me, or anyone else, any trouble for a while. Only Anton doesn't make a move, so he's the only one who I let keep both of his knees. He's so scared it's a wonder he doesn't piss himself. I gather up what weapons I need and leave.

After I rescue Michael Pope and discover that the bad guys are cops, everything gets a whole lot simpler. If they are the threat, I just need to stop them from taking out Diane Hanson. It's a clever little scheme they've got going, robbing and murdering drug dealers; I can see why a prosecutor might be a sizable thorn in their sides. Still not a walk in the park, but at least I'm not shooting in the dark anymore.

That's not what I tell Mr. Finch, though. He promised not to lie to me; I never offered him the same guarantee. I tell him my theory, but stress that I'm not sure, that I need more information. He balks, hesitating, and I wonder what he's so worried about. Is he protecting his informant? Are these numbers being gathered through illegal means? Does he consult an oracle? Considering what I can do, I'd believe almost anything.

As he starts talking, the storm inside him quiets, sadness cold against my skin as he talks about 9/11, contempt and bitterness rising to the surface when he mentions his wealth. We begin to walk and I feel a slow, sleepy sort of pride fill him, quickly followed by shame as he tells me of a machine, a complex computer program spying on the world through every surveillance camera, every cell phone, built to find terrorists before they attack. A secret machine. I ask how he knows about it and that pride fills him again, stronger.

"I built it," he says. We walk through the park and that heavy, crushing shame weighs upon us both as he describes the problem he'd had with his Machine, and the solution he'd found to fix it. Deleting the irrelevant data, ignoring innocent people who needed help. Suddenly, he makes a lot more sense to me, all the inner turmoil, the secrecy, the shame. And I take it back - he's not just brilliant, he's a genius.

This revelation, while unnerving, doesn't help me see the bigger picture any better. I have my guesses, but that's all they are. I could be wrong. And somehow, knowing that this is more than a hunch, that some cold, factual machine, less likely to be fallible than a human, picked out Diane Hanson, it makes it worse. The danger is real now. I voice my doubts and a flicker of wry amusement crackles across the surface of his emotions as the corners of his mouth lift in what might almost be considered a smile, each lasting for only a fraction of a moment. I wasn't expecting an easy job, but it would be nice if it wasn't impossible.

I return to stalking Hanson. What else can I do? Then Mr. Finch calls with bad news. Pope was murdered, stabbed to death in his cell. Stills and his crew are tidying up loose ends, which means Ms. Hanson will be next. As if on cue, she gets a call, a rough voice arranging a meeting. I reach out, trying to read her at a distance, but she's too far away and I'm too out of practice. Before I left the Agency, I could sense a man at thirty yards, but now, I'd be surprised if I can do ten. There was a time when I could pick up feelings from thousands of miles away, but that requires an emotional connection with the person, and as much I don't want to see Diane Hanson get killed, I can't really care about her like that. I doubt if I'll ever care about someone like that again.

I follow Hanson to the rendezvous point and take up position about twenty feet behind her. She looks scared. I take aim as Stills and two of his men approach, but it turns out that my instincts aren't as sharp as they once were. She not the one in danger, she's pulling the strings. She wants Wheeler killed. I focus my perception, like a narrow beam of light in the darkness, and Hanson lights up like a Christmas tree, her anger and contempt backlit by confidence and superiority. She's in charge and she knows it. How could I have been so blind?

My mistakes don't stop there, either. By focusing all my attention on Hanson, I've left myself vulnerable. I take a step back and a strong hand grabs the shoulder of my jacket. Damn it. I raise my hands and let him take my weapon. Fighting is just going to attract the attention of the others, and these aren't snot-nosed street thugs, these are trained cops. At the moment, at least, the guy behind me doesn't feel like he wants to kill me. If I'm lucky, I can keep it that way.

I'm a little surprised to recognize Detective Fusco as the man holding me at gunpoint. He doesn't feel like I imagined he would. His resentment is thick, broken by resignation; if I didn't know better, I might think he didn't want to be there. He does a half-assed job of frisking me, taking my wallet before escorting me over to the group. My arrival makes them confused, uneasy. Fusco forces me to my knees and they ask the usual stupid questions. Stills doesn't like my answer - they never do.

As Diane Hanson walks away, her threats neither vague nor empty, I look up at Stills and wonder why I ever quit drinking. Then the butt of my weapon connects with my head and everything goes black.

I come to in the back of a police car, my head pounding and my hands cuffed in front of me. The car is moving and I can feel a familiar presence, his particular blend of resentment, anger, disgust, and hopelessness like a fingerprint. I open my eyes, shaking my head to clear away the lingering fog, and peer through the grate at Detective Fusco. I comment on the scenery, small talk intended to engage the target, a harmless remark to open a dialog.

He tells me it's Oyster Bay, and that I'm about to become a permanent resident. As a general rule, I don't have much patience for people who plan to kill me, but Fusco makes me hesitate. He didn't want to be in that alley, and he doesn't want to be here. I wonder why he is. Does Hanson have something on him? Somehow I doubt it. Blackmail is a hard leash to hold on to, and I didn't get that vibe from any of them.

So I ask him, and he gives me some bullshit answer about crooked bankers on Wall Street and thinking _What the hell_, but his words mean nothing to him - he doesn't believe what he's saying, and that kind of lie is the easiest to recognize. So if it's not about the money...it must be loyalty keeping him in line. I can relate to that.

I tell him I'm going to let him live, that I could use a man on the inside, and he laughs, amused by my audacity. And distracted, which was my intent. As I explain my two rules to him, I fish a hidden concussion grenade out of a secret inside pocket of my coat. I show it to him and pull the pin, and now _I'm_ amused by his incredulity. What part of this is so hard to believe? I throw the grenade under the front seats and brace myself for the explosion. The car swerves violently, throwing me up against the grate, then flips, rolling onto its roof and sliding down the road, metal squealing against the concrete, squares of safety glass bouncing around the inside of the vehicle as it slides to a stop.

I blink hard and shake the glass out of my hair. Fusco's stunned, but alive. I can feel a fractured kind of confusion coming from him, a semi-conscious haze. Ignoring my aches and scrapes, I kick out the back window and crawl free. My head spins as I straighten up, but it quickly passes. Over the years, I've built up a tolerance to concussions, though I do have the CAT scan of a retired prize fighter.

I make my way around to the driver's side and drag Fusco out of the car. He cries out in pain and shock, his fear sudden and intense as I take his service weapon and search him for the handcuff keys. I haul him to his feet, and even though I can feel his body armor beneath his coat, I ask anyway. One last test. I don't like people who lie to me. But he doesn't lie, even though, judging from the fear radiating from him, he thinks he's about to die. I feel that resignation again, and I imagine he always knew he'd end up like this. Today's his lucky day, though he's not going to be able to appreciate that for quite a while. I step back and put four slugs point-blank into the middle of his back. Kevlar is a magnificent thing, but it doesn't stop it from hurting like a mother fucker. It'll be hours before he can breathe again without pain, but I can't have him coming after me.

I walk away, leaving him whimpering on the ground. I try to call Mr. Finch, but I've got no cell service. It's six miles to the nearest town, and I'm definitely rethinking my current occupation by the time I get there. Hard to believe life as a drunken bum was less hazardous, but I'd never woken up with a headache like this from a hangover.

I break into a car and hotwire it, finally able to get service and give Mr. Finch a call. He sounds happy to hear from me, but I'm not in the mood to be chewed out. I tell him we were wrong and that shuts him up. While I drive, I brief him on the facts and events of the past few hours and he pulls information on Wheeler, giving me his address and warning me that the man is divorced with joint custody of his son. Great. I hate it when kids are involved.

Wheeler's apartment building is a bit lax on the security, no cameras, no doorman, and it looks like I'm just in time. I watch from the shadows as Stills and one of his friends from the alley enter the lobby. I don't know where the black cop is. Stills has some poor bastard at gunpoint, probably their fall guy. They kill the lights and hide behind pillars on either side of the elevator.

Stills radios Doyle, the missing cop - it sounds like he's upstairs keeping an eye on Wheeler's apartment - and I close my eyes, taking a slow breath when Doyle reports that the kid is there too. Stills' response wins him no points in my book and I quietly walk up behind Still's friend, Azurillo, pressing my gun to his head and my hand over his mouth. His fear is cold and sharp inside me, making my heart race, and I fight to keep control of myself. Azurillo drops his gun, the noise getting Stills' attention, and we both take our hostages farther behind our respective pillars.

I'm sweating, shaking, the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I maintain contact with the terrified man, his panic threatening to eat me alive. I hold on until Wheeler and his son are safe, neither aware of what could have happened, and then I shift my grip to Azurillo's jacket. I give Stills one last chance to walk out of this alive, but I know before he speaks what his answer will be. He's cocky and bitter and scared of going to jail. A dangerous combination.

I feel the arrival of a third presence - Doyle coming down the stairs - and as the door swings open, I use his surprise like a sonar beacon to take aim and put a bullet in his leg without ever taking my eyes off Stills. Doyle hits the floor and the tension in the room peaks. All the fight has gone out of Azurillo, nothing but fear and regret left. He just wants to get out of here alive. I tell him to take Doyle to the hospital and let him go.

Now Stills is afraid, and that makes him angry. He makes threats against me, my friends, my family, and there's conviction in his words, there's enough hatred to make him credible. He would do those things, if I allowed him to. I tell him I have no friends, no family, and then I put two in his head. The hostage runs off.

I move quickly - the shots will not have gone unnoticed. I put Stills in the trunk of the stolen car and clean up the blood as best I can. I get out of there before the police arrive, making my way to Mr. Finch's library. He looks at me, a great turmoil raging inside him, but he doesn't ask what happened. He's afraid to. I tell him that Wheeler and his son are alive, and that Stills and his crew are no longer a threat. I'm not sure what to do about Hanson, though. There's room in the trunk with Stills, but like I told Fusco, I don't particularly like killing people.

Luckily, Mr. Finch has a plan. He gives me a recording of Hanson's damning little speech in the alley, and with some clever use of Stills' badge and more than a little breaking and entering, not only am I able to exchange it with the 911 recording that Hanson will play during her first case the next morning, but I also find a better place to put Stills' body.

I'm in the courtroom when the recording plays, too far away to sense Hanson's shock and horror, but it shows on her face clear enough. I let her see me, then I walk away, and there's not a damn thing she can do. I'm waiting in the back of Fusco's patrol car when he climbs in, clearly in a lot of pain. I can imagine the black, fist-sized bruises on his back. He doesn't feel quite as resentful, but the hopelessness is still there. He knows he's at the bottom of a very deep hole. I still haven't decided if I'm going to help him out of it, or start shoveling the dirt in on top of him. I'll have to see if he deserves a second chance, I guess.

He doesn't notice me until I cock my gun in his ear - his gun, actually. He's afraid, but only for a moment. He tells me he's a dead man, but I have good news for him. IA and the gangs will be looking for Stills, not him, but they won't find Stills any time soon. He's in Fusco's trunk and I give my new detective an easy errand, just to see how well he follows orders. I realize that blackmail is a hard leash to hang on to, but I've trained feral dogs before; Fusco isn't going to give me any trouble.

After destroying the blood evidence in the trunk of the stolen car with bleach, I dump it off in a neighborhood where it shouldn't take more than an hour to be stripped down to the frame. I'm on my way back to Mr. Finch's library when he calls and tells me to meet him in Roosevelt Park again. When I arrive, he's sitting on a park bench, staring out over the water. He glances up at me, and I'm struck by _deja vu_ as his emotions roll over me, almost identical to the first time we met. Desperation, guilt, shame, and that flickering seed of hope, shadowed by heavy clouds of doubt.

He says I have a decision to make, that the numbers never stop coming. I know I should run while I have the chance. That detective ran my prints through the system; my friends at the CIA will hear about it sooner or later, and then they'll come for me. I'm not safe here anymore. But does that really matter? If I was serious about drinking myself to death, why should I care if a sniper's bullet gets me instead? Do I still want to die? No, I decide, and I feel like I have this strange little man to thank for that. Just like Wheeler and his son have him to thank for their lives. I may have stopped Hanson and Stills, but it's Mr. Finch and his secret Machine who pointed me in the right direction.

Helping someone. It stirs up memories that I would rather forget, but as painful as they are, the feeling of being useful, of doing something that I know is _good_, is something I had given up on ever feeling again. I _want_ to protect people. And if that wasn't reason enough, that wavering light of hope inside Mr. Finch lives or dies with my decision. For some reason, he has hinged everything on me. I ask him why, why me?

The mosaic of emotions shifts patterns, guilt rising to the forefront with admiration, responsibility, and envy of all things, woven throughout. It's a new twist to the puzzle and I almost don't notice when he calls me by name - my real name. He really does know everything about me. He's been watching me for a long time, and I find it hard to believe that we have anything in common, but he doesn't. He tells me that we're both dead in the eyes of the world, and then, like we're sharing some secret joke, he smiles, a small, awkward expression, and I wonder how long it takes to forget how to smile.

I sit down on the bench beside him. I've had a lot of practice with coaxing information from reluctant assets; I know how to be friendly, unthreatening, sympathetic, but he sees right through me and a wall of suspicion and worry fills the empty space between us as I ask what changed his mind about the irrelevant list. He says I'm not the only one who's lost someone, which is no answer at all, even if it is the truth.

He offers me money. I should take it. I ask what happens if I stay. He says we'll probably both end up dead, really dead, and he really believes it, but the words do not stir up fear or worry or regret. If anything, they calm him, a smooth wave of conviction rolling off of him. He believes this is right and he's willing to die for it. I have to admire that.

I've made my decision, now he must make his. I tell him that I killed Stills. His expression never wavers, but he recoils inside, filled with horror, disgust, guilt, and regret.

"Did you have a choice?" he asks finally. I tell him no. He wants to believe me, but the doubt is smothering. I tell him I need more money, untraceable cash so that I can buy tools, supplies, and more weapons. He doesn't like that, but he agrees. I tell him I need a place to keep these things, that my hotel room isn't quite secure enough. I don't expect him to offer his library, and am not disappointed when he doesn't. He does mention a warehouse that he owns.

"That's a bit more space than I need," I tell him with a smirk. If I'm going to be sticking around, I'll need to earn his trust as quickly as possible, and I've been told that I'm a right charming bastard when I want to be. He's not impressed, my friendly overture met with confusion and skepticism.

"The warehouse stores large, metal shipping containers," he says. "I can give you keys to one or two of them, if that will be satisfactory."

"One should be fine," I say. He nods and rises to his feet, the motion neither swift nor fluid, and his emotions are briefly grayed by the pain. I consider asking if he's okay or offering my help, but he bears it with such stoic silence, I doubt my inquiries would be welcome. I remain seated and watch him head for his car, his steps slow and stiff. Sitting in the cold must not be good for his injuries.

He moves just beyond my range of casual perception before turning back and regarding me for a long moment. I reach out, focusing on him, and feel a great conflict within him.

"If...if you are ever forced to take the same action that you did with Detective Stills...I hope you won't feel it necessary to share that information with me."

"If that's what you'd prefer-"

"I would."

"All right, then." As Mr. Finch turns away again, I stand up and follow after him, my long strides closing the distance between us before he reaches his car. His bodyguards watch warily, but I'm close enough to feel their reluctance - they don't want to tangle with me again. Mr. Finch looks over at me, turning most of his upper body to do so, and raises an eyebrow.

"Who's the new number?" I ask.

"William Chesterfield, businessman, adulterer," he replies.

"Ah, the cheating husband. That could go either way." He could be planning to kill the wife so he can be with the mistress, or kill the mistress to keep her from telling the wife, or kill an outside party who's trying to blackmail him, or one of the women could be planning to kill him, or any number of other possibilities. "Do you have an address; I should clone his phone-"

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Reese," Mr. Finch says. "This one is fairly straightforward." He reaches into his waistcoat pocket and pulls out a business card without a name or logo, just an address on one side and a handwritten string of numbers on the other. He hands it to me.

"What's this?"

"Where you need to be at two o'clock this afternoon. I trust you can make it there in time?" I'm a little surprised to feel a slow, warm undercurrent of amusement accompany these words. I can't see what's funny.

"Of course," I say. "But what-"

"It's the wife, Mr. Reese. She hired two hit-men to kill her husband." He walks away, one of his bodyguards opening the door of his town car as he approaches. Before he climbs inside, he looks back at me. "It's not often that key information is so easy to find; enjoy it while you can."

I watch him drive away, then make my way to my own vehicle - another stolen car. I'm going to have to ask Mr. Finch if my expense account can handle a used car or two. I'm getting tired of having to hotwire these things. As I drive back across the Queensboro Bridge, I enjoy the quiet, both in the car and in my head, my fellow motorists keeping mostly outside the range of my perception. I use the time to compile a list of the things I'll need and the places to get them. It shouldn't come to more than fifteen or twenty grand. I hope Mr. Finch can cover it.

It's barely noon, so I decide to run a quick errand before my appointment. I check up on Stills' friends, Doyle and Azurillo. Doyle is still in the hospital, stable and handcuffed to his bed. I buy a bouquet of daisies in the gift shop and have them sent up to his room. Azurillo tries to make a run for it, but without someone else to do his thinking for him, he manages to fail at that, too. My anonymous tip to the police probably doesn't help.

I walk down the crowded city street, surprised to see that female detective, the one who questioned me after the subway incident, Carter, escorting Azurillo to an unmarked car. I thought she was homicide. I take an inordinate amount of pleasure in walking past them, so close I could reach up and run my fingers through her hair, and she never even notices me. To be fair, she's preoccupied with questioning Azurillo, her contempt for him hanging around her like a cloud of smoke. I hear her ask him about me, but his description is limited to 'some guy in a suit'. It wasn't exactly a suit, just a jacket over a dress shirt, and I make a note to adjust my wardrobe accordingly. Maybe I'll start wearing sweaters


	3. Pilot, Part 3

**Author's Note:** This is the kind of chapter I hope to write more of - the missing scenes. I need you guys to keep me honest, though. If I make a mistake that contradicts something in cannon, don't hesitate to yell at me, lol.

I'm a little concerned with 'my Reese'. Personally, I think the show 'tamed' him a little too quickly, so his character reflects that, I think. I realize I have some leeway, but I don't want him acting too OOC. I want his thoughts and actions to be plausible, so please, let me know if I'm screwing him up. ^_^

Thanks for reading (and reviewing)!

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><p>At a quarter to two, I'm standing across the street from the address that Mr. Finch gave me, a small men's boutique on Fifth Avenue. I'm confused. He said Mr. Chesterfield was a businessman; I was expecting a high-rise office building, not a swanky clothing store. My phone rings.<p>

"Hello, Finch." He's the only one who has this number.

"Did you find the address?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then why are you loitering across the street? Don't forget, a man's life is at stake." For a moment, I wonder how he knows, then I glance up at the surrounding buildings and light poles, half a dozen staring eyes watching the street. Apparently, the Machine isn't the only one with access to the security cameras.

"You didn't tell me that Mr. Chesterfield was a tailor," I say.

"He's not," he says, and I suddenly don't like talking to him on the phone. It had been a relief, at first, to escape his invasive emotions, but now I feel handicapped - his tone is so smooth and dry, I have no idea what he's feeling. I don't know how normal people put up with it. "I've informed Stefano that you're on your way. Give him that card I gave you and let him take your measurements-"

"What the hell for?"

"Clothing, Mr. Reese," he says, and he might be amused, but it's so hard to tell. "That off the rack look might have worked for you when you were with the CIA, but you work for me now and you will dress accordingly."

"I don't have time for this," I tell him, my voice low as I let my displeasure be known.

"Yes, you do. What you _don't_ have time for is dawdling outside the store. Once you're properly dressed, I'll give you Mr. Chesterfield's address."

"And if I refuse?"

"I'm sure the world will survive with one less adulterer in it."

I draw a slow breath and glance from one camera to the next. I hate this. If I could read him, I'd know if he were bluffing or not, but now..."You could do that?" I ask, reduced to mundane interrogation tactics. "You could let a man die?"

"The question is, Mr. Reese, could you?"

Of course I could. He should know that, if he really knows as much about me as he claims. But I still don't walk away. "This is stupid," I mutter.

"Only if you think it has anything to do with your attire," is his reply and then the line goes dead, the call disconnected. I stand on the sidewalk for another moment, considering his words. If it's not about the clothes, then I must assume this is a test of some sort, a test of loyalty, of conviction. Or maybe he's seeing if I'll follow orders. Rich men are used to getting what they want. Perhaps he's testing to see just what hoops I'm willing to jump through to remain in his employ.

I've done far worse to stay on someone's good side. I check the traffic and then cross the street, all my senses on high alert as I enter the small shop. It's well lit and clean, the air perfumed by some sort of expensive musk, a distinctly masculine smell. It's quiet, soothing classical music playing softly from an old turntable in the corner. Real vinyl. I sense two people in the shop, but can only see one - a young man, mid-thirties, impeccably dressed, standing behind the counter, his attention consumed by the laptop in front of him. The other feels like they're near the back of the store, obscured from view by racks of suit jackets and a display of ties.

I walk toward the counter and the young man glances up, immediately stepping away from the computer and giving me a warm smile. "Good afternoon, sir," he says, his gaze flitting to the scrapes and bruises on my face. "How can I help you?" With many people in the retail field, there is a certain forced quality to their friendliness; it doesn't reach any deeper than their smiles, which is understandable - they have no emotional connection to the strangers they're being paid to help - but this young man is genuine, insofar as he's happy to be talking to me. Perhaps it's a slow day or he's tired of doing inventory on the laptop. Who knows?

"I'm looking for Stefano," I say. I doubt that's him.

"Ah, you would be the one Mr. Finch called about." Then again, I could be wrong. He gives me an appraising glance, then motions toward the back of the store as he steps around the end of the counter. "Please. My father is expecting you." And my initial guess was right after all. I follow him to the back, where large mirrors stand against the walls, and a small man with silver hair and an olive complexion sits on a stool, a cloth tape measure draped around his neck. He's as finely dressed as his son and rises as I approach, extending his hand. He has a firm grip and an uncluttered soul - I feel happiness, contentment, and excitement.

"Welcome," he says, his heavy Sicilian accent giving his words a musical quality. I love accents and listening to people speak in foreign languages. "I am Stefano and this is my son, Edoardo. May we offer you some refreshment? Coffee? Tea? Wine?"

"No, thank you," I say. "I'm actually on kind of a tight schedule." I dig the card Mr. Finch gave me out of my coat and hand it to him. He gives it a glance before slipping it into the pocket of his waistcoat.

"Of course, of course. My apologies," Stefano says, gathering up his tape measure and handing a pad of paper and a pen to his son. "Please, remove your coat and shoes." I remove my boots, catching a wave of disapproval from the old man and I cringe, wondering what sort of stiff, leather dress shoes he's going to try to force me into. I need comfort over appearance; I spend eighteen to thirty hours on my feet at a time. I need to be able to run.

I slip out of the coat and step over to the empty coat rack beside one of the long mirrors, feeling the sharp sting of shock and fear against my skin. The gun. I've got Fusco's pistol tucked into the waistband of my trousers at the small of my back.

"I work security for Mr. Finch," I explain, taking gun and ejecting the magazine before setting it on a shelf beside the rack.

"Of course," Stefano says, but he's anxious as he quickly takes my measurements, rattling off each number to Edoardo in Italian. It's ten minutes before he finishes and I can barely stifle a relieved sigh as I step over to fetch my gun and coat.

"Pardon me, sir," Stefano says, "but it'll be a few more minutes. Edoardo will help you pick out colors while I do some quick alterations."

"Can't I just come back later?" I ask.

"Sorry, sir, but Mr. Finch said he would have my head if I let you leave the shop looking like that." He gives me an apologetic smile and I search him for any trace of deceit, but he's telling the truth. I may have to reassess my mysterious employer. With a sigh, I follow Edoardo back to the counter, where he shows me a book filled with samples of different types and colors of cloth. He makes suggestions and since I don't really give a shit, I agree with him, until he gets to the lavender.

"But sir," he argues, "it will bring out the color in your eyes. Women love that."

"I don't really care what women think about my eyes," I tell him.

"Oh," he says, and I catch a sudden flare of surprise, followed by a thin ripple of amusement. "Well, it'll certainly make the men notice them, if that's more to your liking."

"It's not. I work security; I don't want anyone to notice me. I just want to blend in, to disappear, and I can't do that in some damned lavender shirt."

"It's a...very _pale_ lavender..." he says in a small voice. I just stare at him until he grows disconcerted and gives up. While he fills out the order form for no less than ten shirts and four suits, I give the small store a thorough visual sweep, picking out the hidden security cameras. I wonder if Mr. Finch has access to those, too.

Stefano finally comes over and hands me a stack of folded clothes, then shows me to a changing room. It goes against my training to continue to dress in the manner that people will expect and be on the lookout for, but I suppose a 'guy in a suit' isn't much to go on. Most of the men on the streets of Manhattan wear suits. And I have to admit, I look damn good in a tailored suit - black slacks and jacket over a white dress shirt.

I can't have the jacket buttoned, though - it restricts my movement and will slow me down when I need to reach for my weapon. And I don't like having the collar buttoned; it feels too much like being strangled, which has been attempted enough times for my body to develop a rather strong reaction to the sense memory. My heart pounds and I have trouble catching my breath.

In fact, I undo the top two buttons, in no small part because I think it will annoy Mr. Finch. If he wants me to wear a suit, I'll wear a suit, but I'll wear it _my_ way. I emerge from the changing room and Stefano hurries over, a slight frown on his brow and disapproval radiating from him.

"Here, let me help you with those," he says, reaching for the buttons on my shirt. It takes more thought and effort to gently push his hand away than it would to break his wrist.

"It's fine," I say.

"But sir, your tie-"

"No tie," I tell him.

"Nonsense," he argues, stepping over to a rack and selecting several. "The tie is everything, it's the centerpiece of the ensemble. Here, this one is perfect." He holds out a dark blue tie with a black paisley design on it.

"I work security," I say for the third time, my voice low. "A tie is an unnecessary hazard."

"Hazard? How is _this_ a hazard?" he asks, gesturing with the tie in his hand. I show him, grabbing his tie just below the knot and lifting him nearly off his feet. His eyes get big, his face turns red, and he makes a thin, wheezy sound, surprise scaling up into alarm and fear.

My phone rings. "Hello, Finch," I answer.

"Put him down," Mr. Finch says, his voice hard, like he's scolding a bad dog. I suppose it's an appropriate analogy.

"I was just explaining why I don't wear ties," I say, releasing the old man. Edoardo rushes over, broadcasting shock and anger as he checks on his father, then turns like he's going to order me out of the store. I hold up a finger, motioning for him to wait a moment. It's surprising how often that works, even in the most unlikely of situations.

"Civilized people use _words_, Mr. Reese," he says, and before I can remind him that I'm far from civilized, no matter how expensive of a suit he puts me in, he says, "Give the phone to Stefano."

I don't argue, I just hold out the cell. "It's for you."

Stefano takes it, speaking fast and loud in Italian as he gestures wildly with the hand not holding the phone. His son scowls at me, but I pretend to ignore him and check my reflection in the mirror. Stefano grows quiet, as do his emotions, but I'm sensing a calm in him, not fear, so I guess Mr. Finch isn't threatening him. Offering a bribe if he agrees not to call the cops on me? In decent men, that usually elicits an initial flash of outrage, followed by shame, but I'm not picking that up, either. The old man continues to speak Italian, and I add bilingual to the fact sheet that I'm compiling on my mysterious employer.

Finally, Stefano hands the cell back to me. "He wants to speak to you."

"Yes, Finch?"

"I realize that you are accustomed to playing by your own rules, Mr. Reese. That is one of the qualities that made you ideal for this job. However, there are certain things that I will not abide, and roughing up innocent people because you are annoyed with me is one of them. Do we have an understanding?"

"Yes, Mr. Finch," I say, trying to sound contrite, even though I'm not. I didn't hurt the old man. Before I can ask for Mr. Chesterfield's address, he hangs up. I sigh and turn to Stefano and his son, who is still giving me the evil eye. "I'm sorry," I say, wondering what excuse, if any, Mr. Finch had given for my behavior. "I over-reacted. I hope I didn't hurt you."

"I'll live," Stefano says, placing the ties back on their rack. He's uneasy as he walks over to me and looks me over with a critical eye. He tugs on the jacket in different places and pinches the seams of the slacks, making quick notes on his pad of measurements. "All right," he says at last, "you can go change. I'll make the necessary alterations and you can pick up your order tomorrow afternoon."

I study my reflection, but I can't see where anything needs to be altered. "If it's all the same, I'll take this suit just the way it is."

He looks like he wants to argue, but he gives his hand a dismissive wave. "As you like it." I gather up my clothes, my coat, and my gun before pulling out my wallet. I hope these credit cards Mr. Finch gave me have a decent credit limit. But Stefano refuses to take the card. "Mr. Finch said the charges were to be applied to his account."

"Oh." So that was an account number on the back of the business card? I suppose that means I'm free to go. I head for the door, then stop and glance back. "Out of curiosity, how much does the total come to?"

Edoardo picks up the form and does some quick calculating. "Seven thousand, two hundred and forty five." I raise my eyebrows, but say nothing as I walk out. I hope Mr. Finch really is as rich as he seems.

Out on the street, I hail a cab and give the driver the address of the hotel where I'm staying. It's time to move - I've been there nearly a week and the hotel staff are starting to recognize me on sight. I doubt the CIA will be sniffing around this soon, but I prefer to be cautious over being dead. I'll find a new place as soon as I deal with Mr. Chesterfield. Speaking of whom...I dig my cell out of my pocket to give my boss a call and it beeps in my hand, alerting me to an incoming text message. I allow myself a small smirk. It's a time, a date, and an address, and it looks like I've got about seven hours and three days to kill. I guess I'll be finding a new hotel sooner than I thought.


	4. Pilot, Part 4

**Author's Note:** Thanks for all the reviews! You sure know how to keep my inner attention-whore happy. ^_^

I love this chapter. It was such fun to write. I hope you enjoy!

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><p>I hate downtime. Packing my small assortment of personal effects, moving to a new hotel, and unpacking had taken all of an hour. I spent two hours doing reconnaissance around the neighborhood, checking out the local restaurants and merchants, noting every security camera in sight. There were plenty of them.<p>

Bored is not a good state for me to be in. My thoughts tend to sink into dark, painful places, places that make me want to drink, so I try to keep busy. I don't have the cash Mr. Finch promised me, so I can't go shopping, but I make some inquiries and meet a couple of guys who say they can hook me up with whatever I need. We'll see.

And then, because it's too early in the evening to go to sleep, I make my way to Mr. Finch's library, finding myself a perch on a nearby roof from which to watch the asset. The windows are grimy or obscured by renovation scaffolding, but I can see the glow of lights inside and now and then a shadow passes in front of a window, betraying his presence.

It's late, after midnight, when the lights finally go out, all of them blinking out at once. I shift to the edge of the roof and watch the street, waiting for him to emerge from the dark building. He's a small and unimposing figure, wrapped in his dark coat, his limp making his progress labored, but by no means slow. I hurry down the fire escape, emerging from the alley out of breath and more than half a block behind him. He must be crazy, walking alone at this time of night, but he doesn't have to walk far.

I duck back into the shadows as his shiny black town car pulls up to the corner, one of the two bodyguards jumping out to open the back door for him, the other seated behind the wheel. I watch as my quarry escapes, for a moment considering the consequences of stealing a car and trying to follow them, but decide it's not worth the risk of getting caught. I return to my hotel to get some sleep, but I'm up before dawn and back on the roof as the sun rises, binoculars in hand as I search the streets for the town car.

Nine o'clock rolls around, then ten, and there's still no sign of him, and I'm reminded of how little I know about him. It's infuriating. I can't remember the last time I had such difficulties with an asset. And at the same time, I'm glad for the distraction, even if all I do is stand on a rooftop and watch people walk past an abandoned building. The wait between jobs would have been interminable without my little side-project.

It's a quarter to eleven when he calls. "Good morning, Finch."

"I have the money you requested," he says without preamble. "I wasn't sure how much you wanted. If twenty-five isn't enough, I can arrange to give you more."

"Twenty-five hundred?" It's a start, but not nearly enough.

"Ah...no," he says, and his lack of elaboration piques my interest. He's watching what he says, probably because he's in a place where he could be overheard.

"Thousand?" I focus on the background noise; voices, indistinct, many of them, but it's what I _don't_ hear that is most curious. There's no noise of silverware against plates, glasses being set down on tables, no sounds of eating, which means he isn't in a restaurant, and there's no traffic noise, so he isn't outside, and there's no annoying easy listening music being piped through tinny department store speakers, so he's not shopping. I don't know where he is, but I know where he _isn't_.

"Yes. Will that do?"

"For now. Should I come to the library to get it?"

"I won't be there today, Mr. Reese," he says. "Meet me in Bryant Park at noon, near the fountain." He hangs up before I can say anything else. Assuming that he's telling the truth - and at this point I'm inclined to believe that he hasn't lied to me yet - there's no point in hanging around the library any further. I catch a cab over to Bryant Park and spend the hour standing in the shadow of the New York Public Library, avoiding the majority of the park visitors, who have come here to enjoy the wan sunlight of a fading fall day. I don't like large groups of people, so many overlapping emotions, so much chaos in my head.

I watch the fountain, and the multitudes relaxing on the Great Lawn or in the chairs scattered all around the perimeter - mothers with small children, businessmen and women grabbing one last lunch out of doors before winter arrives, students taking a break from studying in the library to enjoy the fleeting sunshine. And then I see him, his limp catching my eye as he arrives through the west entrance, a briefcase in one hand and a small, brown paper bag in the other. The man clearly needs a lesson in safety if he thinks that is an acceptable way to carry twenty-five thousand dollars, hanging on to the briefcase with no more care than he does his lunch.

I cross the Lawn, beating him to the fountain, and take a seat on the rim of the basin, letting him find me. He's wary, nervous, as he should be, but not nearly enough. He says nothing, instead glancing around and motioning toward an empty table. I take a seat across from him as he sets down the bag and his briefcase.

"You really should be more careful, Finch," I say, and he responds with one slightly arched eyebrow. "Any decent purse-snatcher could have grabbed that briefcase right out of your hand and been gone."

I'm confused by the flicker of amusement that colors his feelings. "Yes, that would have been a shame," he says, his tone dry as he releases the catches and opens the case. He pulls out a sandwich, one made in a deli, wrapped in paper bearing a bright green frog logo on it. "I'm starving."

"And the money?" He pushes the brown bag toward me and I'm forced to reassess my opinion of him yet again. "Clever," I admit. No thief, except maybe a hungry one, is going to grab a brown-bag lunch when there's a briefcase to be had.

"I may not have been a spy, but I'm not new to this game, Mr. Reese," he says, unwrapping his sandwich. It was made fresh not long ago, the lettuce and alfalfa sprouts still crisp and green. He starts to take a bite, but stops, staring at me across the table. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

I stand up on instinct, years of following orders making such a blatant dismissal hard to ignore. Wondering when this strange little man became my commanding officer, I grab the bag of money. "Enjoy your lunch," I say as I walk away, heading in the opposite direction that he's facing. I wait until I'm halfway to the park entrance before I glance back at him, simultaneously surprised, amused, and annoyed to see that he's moved into the seat I vacated so he can keep an eye on _me_. I can't exactly follow him if he's watching me, now can I?

I keep walking and after a moment, the phone rings. "Yes, Finch?"

"I almost forgot," he says in that smooth, ambiguous tone, "in the bag you'll find an index card with an address on it and a key to one of my storage containers. Call if you have trouble finding it."

"Shouldn't be a problem," I say, but he's already hung up. That's really starting to get on my nerves. I put the cell away and throw a quick look over my shoulder, but he's not at the table anymore. I stop, turn, and scan the crowd, but I can't see his distinctive gait. Damn it. Sneaky bastard. But then, so am I.

Armed only with the logo off a sandwich wrapper, I canvas the neighborhood, working outward from the park. It takes most of three hours, but I find the deli, four blocks east of the park. The lunch rush is well over, only a couple of customers placing their sandwich orders as I enter. My gaze sweeps the small shop as I wait. No surveillance cameras. I'm not surprised. I flash Stills' badge at the middle-aged man behind the counter and am answered by a subtle blend of fear and anger. It's not directed at me personally, just cops in general.

"I'm looking for a person of interest in a recent robbery," I tell him. "A white male, about five nine, brown hair, glasses, walks with a limp - he was seen eating a sandwich from your shop." My description sparks an involuntary recognition emotion, a flash of low-grade happiness, the kind I associate with a casual acquaintance who is liked well enough to be memorable, but it's almost immediately overwhelmed by unease and concern.

"Yeah, I know him," the man says. "He was in here this afternoon."

"Do you know his name?"

The guy shrugs and shakes his head. "No; he always pays cash."

"How often does he come in here?" I ask, catching the use of _always_.

"I don't know...once a week, maybe. Hey, Jimmy," he says, turning to the younger man preparing the sandwiches at the other end of the counter, "what do you say? Once a week for Mr. Manners?"

"Yeah, that's about right," Jimmy says. "But not every week."

"Mr. Manners?" I repeat, arching an eyebrow and fighting a smirk.

"On account of he's so polite all the time," the man says. "These days, you don't see so much of that anymore."

"All right. And how long has he been coming in here?"

"Since we opened, about six years ago. What did you say he did?"

"I just need to ask him some questions," I say, but my words don't ease his concern. "Do you know if he lives or works in the neighborhood?"

He hesitates. "Yeah, I've seen him leaving one of those big office buildings over on Park Avenue a few times, the tall black one on the corner of East 40th."

_Bingo._ "Did you see him get into a car or a taxi?"

"No, he headed for Grand Central Terminal."

"Thanks for your cooperation," I say and turn to leave.

"If he comes in here again, you want us to call the cops?" the man behind the counter asks, though his reluctance is strong. Probably doesn't want to lose a loyal customer.

"No, don't worry about it," I tell him. "Like I said, I just want to talk to him. He's not a suspect or anything." Relief floods through him and I smile as I walk out. I consider heading for Park Avenue, but I've still got a bag with twenty-five grand in my hand and it's late enough to pick up my new clothes at the tailor's, and my visit to the deli has reminded me that I haven't eaten all day. I decide to give my investigation a rest for the moment. I can't let this side-project interfere with my job, although I'm positively aching to prove to Mr. Finch that as good as he is at this game, I'm better. I'm sure I'll get my chance.

After quick stops at the tailor's and my hotel, I grab a bite to eat and steal yet another car before driving myself out to the address written on the index card. It leads me to a massive warehouse along the East River. The key Mr. Finch gave me is for a heavy-duty padlock and doesn't open the warehouse office door, so I have to let myself in. It takes only a few seconds to pick the lock.

Once inside, I make my way through the dark, dusty office and emerge into the warehouse, late afternoon light filtering in through the high, dirty windows and casting deep shadows in the pathways between tall stacks of metal shipping containers. This place is big enough to have its own weather, the air cold and still as I make my way down the long rows, looking for the number written upon the card. It doesn't take long for me to realize that the containers are not stacked in any particular order, and I'm searching for one among nearly a thousand.

It occurs to me that Mr. Finch may have arranged this needle in a haystack to keep me occupied, to keep me from prying into his life, and I consider calling him to ask for directions, but I can just imagine the smugness in that dry voice. I can find it myself. I backtrack, returning to the office and searching through the file cabinets and folders until I find an inventory printout. The pages are yellowed and faded, but I can make out the row number for the container he has assigned me.

I set out again, my steps quick as the light fades. I'm going to need to get myself a good flashlight if I want to come here after dark. Which I will. It's much easier to move unregistered and illegal weaponry under the cover of night.

Suddenly, I stop, my attention grabbed by a heavy chain and large silver padlock securing the doors of a dark blue shipping container. It's not the right number to be mine, but I try my key in the lock anyway. It doesn't open and I have to wonder how many other vigilantes Mr. Finch allows access to his warehouse. I start to move on, but my curiosity draws me back and I pull out my lockpick set. This one takes almost a minute, the padlock stiff from disuse, but it finally springs open. The chain rattles as I slide it free, the door giving a groan that echoes through the warehouse.

It's pitch black inside, but I pull out my cell, using the bluish light from the screen to illuminate the contents of the container. Shadows dance as the glow plays over at least a dozen old computers, each carefully wrapped in protective plastic. Against one wall of the container sits a wine rack, the bottles dusty. There's a tall shelf at the back, but I can't tell what's on it. It doesn't look like books. I step inside and something crunches beneath my feet. I glance down, but it's just a household grade desiccant, scattered across the floor to absorb moisture and prevent mildew.

The shelves are filled with old vinyl records, everything from jazz to classical to rock 'n roll, all arranged alphabetically by artist. I spend a few moments paging through them before exiting the container and locking it back up. The wine and computers make me think this is Mr. Finch's personal storage, but the records...He doesn't really strike me as an Etta James or Springsteen fan. I file the information away for later and continue down the row.

I find the designated container, use my key to open the padlock, and then, just because I'm still feeling a little sore about him giving me the slip in the park, I take the lock and chain, and choose a different container on the opposite side of the warehouse. I pass several more locked containers, but I don't take the time to investigate; it's really getting dark and I don't want to drain the battery on my phone. I return to my hotel and make plans for the next two days.

Those plans, it turns out, include a lot of back rooms and shady characters, lots of bluffing, lots of lying, and just a bit of violence. I don't kill anyone, but I can add a few locations to the list of places where I'm not welcome. I also discover that twenty-five thousand dollars doesn't go as far as it used to as far as black-market weapons are concerned. Sure, 9mm's and AK47's are dirt cheap, but the good stuff, the grenade launchers and fifty caliber, armor-piercing sniper rifles, those are a bit more pricey. I'm able to make down-payments, though, and it'll be a week before the merchandise arrives, so I have time to get some more cash out of the boss.

The ease with which he handed over twenty-five grand tells me more about him than his claims of being very rich, or his offhand comment about a bank he controls, or the warehouse, or the fancy car and private security. Any run-of-the-mill millionaire can rent an office on Park Avenue, but I doubt any of them would hand over a bag full of cash without even blinking. He either truly doesn't care about his wealth, which I did sense that day in the park when he told me about the Machine, or he has so much that it has become meaningless to him. I'm guessing it's a bit of both.

Further speculation will have to wait, though. I slide into one of my new, black suit jackets, tuck my pistol into the waistband of my slacks at the small of my back, and leave my hotel room. I have a date with William Chesterfield.


	5. Ghosts, Part 1

**Author's Note:** Wow, this took a long time to write. Hopefully, it'll be worth the wait. I've been trying to work on a short Valentine's themed story (late, as usual), but I've found myself distracted by a yearning to read smutty, fluffy, Rinchy stories. I'm checking here constantly to see if there's anything new, so everyone be a dear and write me some slashy fic to enjoy. Pretty please? ^_^

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><p>After saving Mr. Chesterfield from an untimely death, I find myself walking the streets, a nervous energy making my hands ache, my limbs restless, my thoughts race. Adrenaline. It hadn't even been a challenge, but my body has grown accustomed to stressful situations, my fight or flight response ramped up with a hair-trigger. It'll be hours before I wind down naturally. A good fight would help speed things along, or a hard fuck, or a stiff drink.<p>

I'm not an alcoholic, and I am aware that most alcoholics claim that they aren't, but I'm really not. I used the booze to drown painful memories. Now that I have a purpose again, those memories aren't quite so painful and I don't have nearly as much free time to dwell on them. So when I find myself in a crowded bar, I'm not worried about having a hangover in the morning. I'm not going to get drunk, I'm just going to take the edge off.

I order Scotch, a double, neat, and sit at a table against a wall, watching a handful of twenty-somethings dancing near the jukebox. They're drunk, laughing and stumbling, faces flushed, eyes too bright, emotions laid bare and uninhibited, like so many cans of spilled paint, bold colors all running together. One of them notices me and gets the attention of her friends. I smile politely and look away, sipping my drink and savoring the smooth warmth that rolls down my throat and settles in my stomach before spreading out to my fingertips, making my restless hands grow still. Good stuff.

I feel someone approach and glance over as the young woman walks up. She's pretty, with short dark hair and dark eyes, not quite half my age, probably, but I bet I'm still old enough to be her father. Still, she's attracted to me, her arousal sliding over my skin and making my body respond. Desire is the most contagious of all emotions and I have a hard time turning down her invitation to dance. I tell her I can't dance, which is a lie, and I'm sure she takes it as such, her disappointment clear. She walks away and I finish my drink, casting one last look in her direction as I leave.

It's been so long since I felt the warmth of a body against mine, since I let myself surrender to the emotions of another, that I don't completely trust myself. Desire is as confusing as it is intoxicating, a treacherous and infectious emotion that has deceived me before.

My thoughts turn to Stanton as I head for my new hotel. It's a long walk, but I couldn't sleep yet anyway, not with her face haunting me. The attraction had been mutual, once I'd gotten used to her ruthless side, her desire almost overwhelming whenever we were alone together, but she never acted on it, so finally...I did. It was the first in a string of mistakes that killed both her and Jessica. I won't make those mistakes again.

It's after midnight when I finally close the door of my hotel room behind me, standing for a moment in the darkness, letting my senses sweep the small suite. I'm alone. I turn on the lights and shrug out of my new jacket, tossing it down on the bed as I toe off my shoes and unbutton my shirt. I need a shower.

I've survived for months, even years, with the barest of necessities, but when life presents me with the opportunity for indulgence, the first thing I want, before good food or warm clothes or a soft bed, is a hot shower. I leave a trail of clothes behind me as I enter the bathroom, pausing to strip off my socks and briefs before turning on the faucet to let the water heat up. While I wait, I check my body for injuries that might have gone unnoticed in the heat of the moment. I'd once gone eight full hours before realizing that I'd been shot in the arm. It was a small caliber, though-and-through, and I'd been dodging rocket propelled grenades at the time, so it wasn't as preposterous as it sounded. Tonight, all I find are a few fresh bruises appearing over the faded ones from Fusco's car wreck. The ones on my face are all but gone.

I step into the steaming spray, an involuntary sigh and shudder escaping me as the near-scalding water cascades over my skin. It stings, my skin still chilled from my walk in the autumn night air, but the medley of sensations is deliciously tactile. After being bombarded with emotional input all day, it's nice to feel something _real_.

I sleep, but it's not restful. I wake before dawn, shivering, the sheet tangled around my legs, my T-shirt damp with sweat. I don't remember details, but I know I was dreaming about Jessica. I could _feel_ her, the way she used to feel when she slept beside me. I shrug it off and take a quick shower, then get dressed and head out. I grab breakfast and a bitter cup of kiosk coffee on my way to Grand Central Terminal. I can't imagine someone as rich as Mr. Finch riding the subway, but it's as good a place to start as any. I'd like a bit more information before I visit his office, like which floor it's on. I'd prefer not to have to knock on doors until I find him.

At a quarter after eight, I spot him emerging from the terminal. I wonder if he realizes how easy that limp makes it to pick him out of a crowd. Not that there's anything he could do about it if he does. I pace him from the opposite side of the street, too far away to sense him, and there's so many people around me, I wouldn't be able to sift out his emotions anyway. He looks calm, relaxed, but then, he always does. As we near Park Avenue, my predatory nature gets the better of me, but unlike a cat toying with a mouse, I keep my claws in. I can't resist calling him, though.

He answers and I linger on the street corner as I report the good news regarding Mr. Chesterfield. It's always better to require the services of a divorce attorney than a coroner. He suggests I get some rest, like that's not what I've been doing for the past three days. Taking out a couple of hit-men in an elevator isn't exactly hard labor. He tells me we need to meet later. I guess that he's got another number and he confirms, calling this one 'unusual'. If that makes the first two typical, I can't wait. He turns the corner and I lose sight of him for a moment before I hurry across the street. Except, when I reach the corner, he's nowhere to be seen. The cell still up to my ear, I glance up and down the street.

"And Mr. Reese?" he says. "We'll meet on my schedule, not yours." He hangs up and I put the phone in my pocket, taking a deep breath as I reach out, searching for him, sweeping the area with a narrow beam of perception. I can't help glancing over my shoulder as I do, remembering how Fusco got the jump on me, but there's just a handful of pedestrians going about their business.

I feel him, what is becoming a familiar presence standing not more than fifteen feet from me, just inside the door of a nearby building. He's angry and worried. I consider confronting him, but that would be...inelegant. This is a game and I have cards I don't want to show yet. I turn and walk away in apparent defeat, my senses still fixed on him, and I feel a whisper of smugness before I move out of range. He thinks he got away from me again. I just smirk to myself.

I beat him to the corner of East 40th and Park and stand in the shadows between two of the nearby buildings. He's looking for me as he crosses the street and stiffly mounts the steps to the plaza in front of the tall, black-glass skyscraper. I step out of hiding as he enters the building, edging closer as I watch the windows. If he works any higher than the sixth floor, I'm going to have a hard time seeing from ground-level, what with the reflection from the pearly gray clouds overhead, but I'm in luck as I see him lurching along on the third floor.

I head inside and check the directory in the front lobby. The third floor, as well as half of the building, is occupied by a company called IFT. No information on what sort of company it is, though. I locate the Human Resources department on two and take the stairs. On my way up, I consider using Stills' badge again, but quickly decide against it. These are educated, highly-paid clerical staff, not sandwich-makers; they'll probably want warrants and subpoenas before they turn over any information, and two, I think Mr. Finch will be more than a little pissed if I implicate him in any criminal activity in front of his employees.

So I do the next easiest thing - I just walk in. The key to making people think you belong somewhere is confidence. Confidence is everything. It helps if you look like you know where you're going, and it's definitely a perk if you can swipe an electronic key card out of someone's pocket, but the foundation begins with confidence. I let myself into a secure back room, where the hard copies of all the files are kept. In this electronic age, I still prefer rifling through real paper files to digital ones.

What I find is the last thing I expected. There is only one Finch working for IFT, but rather than being the CEO or president of the company, he's just your everyday geek, a run-of-the-mill software engineer. The only thing unusual about him is the number of personal days he's taken in the last two years or so, most of them for medical leave. He's probably altered his personnel file. I use my cell to take pictures of the pages for further study, then get the hell out of there.

He calls just after lunch and gives me the address for a cemetery. It's as good a place as any to meet, and better than many. The grounds are quiet, peaceful, and nearly deserted when I get there, manicured trees and bushes providing cover should it be needed, with no tall buildings nearby. It's not a place I'd want to try to spy on someone in.

He arrives punctually, in a shiny black town car that doesn't look out of place among the marble headstones and mausoleums. The car stops and he climbs out, turning a slow circle as he looks for me. I step out of the shadow of a tree and walk toward him. I'm close enough to feel him before he sees me, the anxiousness rolling off him. He must have terrible ulcers.

He turns, and while his expression doesn't so much as twitch at the sight of me, the worry stops pouring off of him. Curious. Was he concerned that I wouldn't show up, or that I'd be hiding behind one of the tombs with a rifle, ready to put a bullet in his head? I let myself consider that for a moment, picturing his face in my crosshairs, the way the blood would scatter in the air, the way his body would hit the ground, and I decide that I would not be happy if I had to kill him.

He seems to be a truly good man, judging from everything I've felt thus far. I acknowledge that there is probably much more to him than his desperation and guilt and hope and worry, but the usual red flags - the hate and rage and greed and jealousy - those simply aren't in him. So unless that changes, I can foresee no scenario where I would choose to kill him.

Without a word, he starts walking. I fall into step beside him, his car following slowly behind us. After a moment, he asks how my research went, his tone benign, belying the anger, smugness, and amusement within him. I tell him it was inconclusive and feel the amusement rise to the surface, only to sink quickly, displaced by a brief flash of guilt, followed by a jumble of confusion, curiosity, and doubt.

Theresa Whitaker, age fifteen, some disciplinary trouble, but overall a good kid, which will be a refreshing change, if it's true. I ask where I can find her and his uncertainty intensifies as he turns his entire upper body to give me an inscrutable look over his shoulder. I can't imagine what it must be like to be so...impaired, so damaged that a quick glance behind you becomes a full-body ordeal. I hope I never have to take him into the field; he'll end up getting us both killed.

He leads me into the graveyard, to a large marble headstone inscribed with four names - an entire family - all killed on the same date, murdered. Theresa is one of them. I ask if we're looking for a ghost and am answered with a mix of amusement and scorn, some of which colors his tone as he replies that there are no such things as ghosts. I can't correct him, of course, not without tipping my hand, but it doesn't matter. If Theresa was a ghost, there's no way she could harm anyone or be harmed, so Mr. Finch's Machine would have no reason to choose her.

So why did it? What is it trying to tell us? It's a bit like trying to decipher a message from Lassie. The Machine is barking, but we don't know why.

"I need more information," I say. "Anything you can find on the family or the murder." He nods, still staring at the headstone, a thin veil of sadness hanging around him. Then he straightens, his gaze sweeping the cemetery, and he knocks the wind out of me with the sudden wave of grief that pours out of him, something deeply personal. I take note of the direction he's looking as he turns and starts limping back to his waiting vehicle.

"I'll contact you when I have that information," he says.

"I also need more money," I call after him and he stops.

"How much?"

"Another twenty-five will do it." He doesn't bat an eyelash, physically or emotionally. "Not today, but before next week would be nice."

"I'll get right on that," he says, and as he regards me, I feel a swell of concern and doubt. That tells me that he doesn't care about the money, but he's a little worried about what I'm doing with it. Maybe he thinks I'm taking advantage of him, using it on booze and whores. Or he might think I'm planning to take the money and run.

"If you're worried about what I'm spending it on, I'm saving my receipts," I tell him with a smirk. He snorts and heads for his car, but I've alarmed him. I doubt it was my humor. For someone who has worked so hard for so long to keep their emotions hidden - and that's the only way he'd be as good at it as he is - to have someone "guess" what he was feeling must seem like a terrible invasion of his privacy. If he knew the truth...

I watch him get into his car and leave, waiting until he's out of sight before I turn and head through the tombstones, reading each carved name that I pass as I walk in the direction that Mr. Finch was looking. I reach the far edge of the cemetery without finding anything obvious. Perhaps there's nothing to find. His grief could have been sparked by a memory while he just happened to be looking this direction. Emotions are tricky like that - even after four decades of honing my ability, it is still very much a guessing-game as to what all the feelings mean.

Since I have nothing to go on except for a dead girl's name, I head back into the city, driving past Mr. Finch's library to make sure the lights are on inside before heading over to Park Avenue. Leaving my phone in the car in case my paranoid employer is tracking the GPS, I find a nearby florist and order an arrangement to be delivered, smirking to myself as I fill out the card - _Finch, Thanks for the job, Reese _- and slip it into the tiny envelope. He won't get a chance to see it, so why not?

From across the street, I watch the deliveryman make his way up to the third floor. A few minutes later, he comes back down. That's my cue. No one notices me as I stroll through the busy office, weaving among the cubicle islands, looking for the flowers. Well, almost no one.

"Can I help you?"

I turn as a man walks up, late thirties or early forties, office-type, clearly thinks he's in charge of something, his suspicion and arrogance an unappealing combination. "I'm looking for Harold Finch," I say, recalling the first name from his personnel file.

"Oh? Regarding what, if I might ask?"

"It's a personal matter, if you don't mind," I say, looking around the room again, but the gray walls of the little cubicle cells block my view. I can't imagine working in this dungeon.

"I see," he says with a flash of annoyance, his suspicion rising. "Well, Harold isn't here right now. He's taking another personal day, so unless there's something I can do-"

"There isn't," I say, annoyed myself. A sharp punch to the larynx would get him out of my hair, but I resist the urge. "I'll try him at home instead. Thanks."

"That's good," he says as I walk away. "Personal business should really be conducted on personal time anyway."

I make my way outside and to a sheltered stoop across the street, where I can watch the front doors and the entrance to the underground parking. As I wait, I contemplate the reasons Mr. Finch could have for maintaining such a...bland persona. His file said he'd worked there for seventeen years and had only been promoted twice. I don't know if I can believe the information - someone as skilled with computers as he appears to be could easily doctor it to say whatever he wanted - but whether it's true or not isn't really the point. The man is a genius - he could do so much more than database coding; and he's already ridiculously rich - he doesn't need the paycheck; and I can't see him hanging around for the office camaraderie and lunch-room gossip.

Finally, the office douchebag leaves. I see him exit the parking structure in a three or four year old BMW. Five minutes later, I'm back on the third floor, and this time, I find Mr. Finch's desk without interruption. It's very neat and organized, no pictures, no knickknacks, no coffee mug - nothing personal, just a computer and some files. Wait, what is that? Tucked behind his phone, almost hidden beneath a notepad, is a small wooden plaque, gold letters etched into the black enameled faceplate. Software Engineer of the Month. How cute.

I glance around the office to make sure no one is watching me, then I pluck the little card out of the flower arrangement, slip it into my pocket, and pick up the flowers, dropping them into the trash as I head out. Mission accomplished


	6. Ghosts, Part 2

**Author's Note:** Finally, another chapter! I really like this one because of the added scene. It wasn't planned, it just sort of happened. Hope you enjoy and thanks for the reviews!

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><p>I don't hear from Mr. Finch until the next morning. I use the time to take care of some personal business, stocking up on medical supplies, because it doesn't matter how good I am, I'm going to get hurt, and I need to be ready for it. I prepare three first-aid kits - one to keep at the hotel, one to put in my shipping container, and one to leave at Mr. Finch's library, assuming I'm ever invited back to it.<p>

Not that there's anything stopping me from going in uninvited, I just don't want to press my luck with him. As mysterious as he is, and with as many questions as I have, he's still given me something that I never expected, something that I probably don't deserve - a second chance. I'm not stupid enough to throw that away. So I'll give him his library for now, even if I am peeking into every other corner of his life.

It's almost eight o'clock the next morning before I get a text from him, just a time and an address. At nine, I'm walking down pier twelve in Bowery Bay, Mr. Finch standing at the end of the dock with his chauffeur and bodyguards looking on from the shore. I wonder how much they know about their boss and why they're not more curious. I can't even put a price on my curiosity.

Mr. Finch is leaning on the rail of the dock as I approach, staring out over the water, his emotions relatively calm today, even if they are muddled. Surprise washes over everything else as I speak - was he so lost in thought that he didn't hear me coming? - and he gives me one of his stiff looks over his shoulder.

This is the last place anyone saw Theresa Whitaker alive. He hands me a large envelope containing a folder full of information, and he continues speaking as I look through it. The intel is extensive; he must have spent all night gathering it, a hunch that is confirmed when I notice that he's wearing the same brown suit from yesterday. He looks tired, which would also explain his subdued feelings.

The information he's given me is a good start, but I need more. I need the police report. I tell him I'll talk to my "friend" in the department and I'm hit with a wall of dislike and unease. I feel the same way, but we don't really have any choice. I leave him standing on the dock and head back into the city.

Stills' badge comes in handy once again, getting me deep into the precinct, where I find my pal, Fusco. I yank him into a men's restroom, his surprise and fear cold and sharp against my skin, but it's quickly seared away by hot anger as he recognizes me. I tell him what I need and he argues with me, whining about his IAD file, like it's my fault he's a dirty cop. I repeat my request, something that I won't be inclined to do too many more times, and walk away. Half an hour later, he meets me outside the station.

File in hand, I catch a cab to Mr. Finch's library, standing outside on the street as I give my employer a call.

"Hello?" he answers.

"I got the file," I tell him. "I need to use your computer; are you at the library?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese. Come on up." Nosy son-of-a-bitch. For someone who values his privacy so highly, he sure shows very little regard to anyone else's. I've considered turning off my phone so he can't track it, but I think that would just make him more suspicious of me. I need him to trust me, or I'll never get anywhere with him.

I read through the police report as archived news footage plays on his computer and it quickly becomes obvious that this was a professional hit made to look like a murder/suicide. I can't believe the cops missed it, but then again, yes, I can. I've done the same thing a few times and in all but one, no one had ever been the wiser. I explain to Mr. Finch about the muzzle impressions. He's curious, but also skeptical as he asks how I know. After the fuss he made about not wanting to know about Stills' death, I'm surprised he wouldn't know better. I tell him it's what I would have done and he cringes emotionally, a tight knot of regret, disgust, and fear forming inside him. Maybe he'll think twice about questioning me in the future.

He doesn't let it show, though, instead voicing the very question that's on my lips - why didn't the shooter kill Theresa? He mentions an address for the aunt and uncle, but I've got my own leads, and I can't be in two places at once. I ask him for help and he balks, fear, alarm and worry pouring out of him.

"If you could just talk to the relatives," I say, clarifying in case he thought I'd be sending him after the hitman. The panic eases, but not as much as I would have thought. He licks his lips and draws a breath before nodding.

"All right. What sort of information am I looking for?"

"Any reason anyone had to kill them," I say. "The financial trouble Grant was having is a red flag in my book. And maybe one of them knows where to find the girl." I reach into my jacket and pull out Stills' badge. "You want to borrow this? It's good at getting people to talk."

He draws back, for once letting his displeasure be seen on his face. "You took his badge?"

"It's come in very handy," I say, my tone light, teasing, playful. He does not appreciate it.

"I can handle it myself," he says and turns away. I'm curious how he intends to do that, but I don't ask. I just leave, taking Deacon Page's mug shot with me.

As far as I can tell, Mr. Finch doesn't like me. When he looks at me, I sense worry and doubt, disgust and fear, desperation and hope. Normally, I don't care how people feel about me; I've gotten used to it all...except for that flicker of hope. And perhaps that's why it bothers me that he doesn't like me, that he's afraid of me, that he finds me...repellent, because in spite of that, I give him hope. I haven't been able to do that for anyone in a long time.

I hit every skateboard park in Manhattan, glad that Mr. Finch didn't take the badge after all, because even with it, these kids are all attitude and smart-ass remarks. It's almost five before Mr. Finch calls to tell me how his first foray into the field went. He talked to the aunt, but the uncle is off the grid. He asks where I am, like he's not tracking my every move through the cell, and I answer. Right about then, I spot a kid that could be Deacon's twin and for once I get to hang up on Mr. Finch.

Deacon is all tough-guy bravado and teenage attitude as I take his phone, but when I show him Theresa's picture his alarm is borderline panic. I know he's seen her even before he lies to me. Once I've cloned his cell, I let him walk away, my gaze sweeping the plaza as I wait. Sure enough, a minute later, Deacon sends a text and on the far side of the plaza, at an ATM machine, a teenage girl casts a startled look around. Got her.

She runs and I chase, weaving through pedestrians. I grab her arm, her fear strong, but her determination stronger. She whips her arm around and my ability goes dark as some kind of blade slices deep into the heel of my left hand, pain radiating up to my elbow. Ignoring the blood, I run after her, but nearly get hit by a van and she escapes. I curse under my breath and look at my hand, blood dripping from my fingers. She missed the main artery, but just barely, and I don't have to be a doctor to know that some gauze and an ace bandage isn't going to cut it this time.

The pain in my hand is sharp and insistent, a nagging ache clawing up toward my shoulder, leaving me emotionally blind to the people around me, so many people, and I have no idea what they are feeling. Someone bumps against me and I whip around, but the man walks on, oblivious. I have to get out of here.

I glance up at the street sign and try to picture the nearest hospital. Luckily, the area is familiar to me from my time on the street. Unfortunately, the nearest hospital is seventeen blocks away. There is a clinic just two streets away, one that I had been forced to visit a couple of times, once when a cut on my leg got infected and once when another transient had gotten the jump on me and broken a beer bottle over my head.

I feel more than a bit out of place, walking in wearing an eight hundred dollar suit, my ability to blend in and disappear stripped from me. I'm just all kinds of vulnerable right now and I hate it. Everyone in the waiting room stares at me, two hobos and a young mother with a colicky baby, even the woman behind the desk, and for a moment I just stare back, uncertain. Are they angry, or afraid, or amused; are they going to help me or throw me out?

Stepping over to the desk, I hold up my hand, the blood dark and tacky. "I, uh...I had an accident," I say. Her eyes get big, then she reaches back, opens a drawer, and pulls out a large, sterile sheet of gauze.

"Here, put pressure on it and keep it above your heart. What happened?"

"I was opening boxes at work and the knife slipped - I was being careless." And an accident wouldn't require them to call the police like an assault would. I hear a noise and glance behind me, but it's just the young woman rocking her baby. The hobos are still staring at me and I shift uneasily, unable to sense any malice in them or not. I need some painkillers, now.

"Do you have insurance?" she asks.

I shake my head. "I haven't been working long enough for the benefits to kick in, but I can pay. I'm not looking for a handout, this was just closer than the hospital." And hopefully they'd ask fewer questions.

"All right, have a seat. The doctor will be with you as soon as he can."

I sink into one of the mismatched waiting room chairs, facing the two transients and keeping the front door in the corner of my eye. They watch me warily, one of them murmuring quietly to the other. After a few minutes, I start to relax. They don't seem threatening, just curious. The young woman, on the other hand, isn't paying any attention to me at all. She can't be more than seventeen and even without my ability, it's obvious that she's scared to death, rocking her baby and singing softly, trying to make it stop crying.

The door into the back rooms opens and I jump - I hadn't felt anyone approaching. The receptionist motions to me. "The doctor will see you now."

I glance at the other people in the room. "But they were here before me."

"We're just waiting for him," one of the hobos says as a third man emerges past the receptionist.

"Your condition is more serious," the receptionist says as the three men leave. "Now come on."

"No, I'll wait," I say, lifting the edge of the gauze and exposing the wound. "The bleeding has stopped. Take her first."

"All right. Come along, miss."

Clutching her baby to her chest, the young woman rushes across the room. "Thanks, mister," she says as she passes me. I sit in the empty waiting room, my hand throbbing, for another half hour before she comes back out. The baby is still crying, but she doesn't look nearly as scared.

The receptionist shows me to an exam room and I sit for a few more minutes before the doctor comes in. I glance up as the door opens, momentarily surprised to recognize him.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Clark," he says, his voice an unmistakable deep, rumbling bass, surprising coming from a tall and relatively slender man. He's about twenty years older than me, if I had to guess, his hair completely silver, his smile warm and genuine. He treated me both times that I came in, and I remember being impressed by his kindness and compassion, his gentle demeanor carrying not a hint of disgust or scorn, even for a dirty, drunken bum like I was.

"I'm John," I say and he pauses, just for an instant, his gaze darting back to my face. Then he turns away and begins washing his hands in the sink.

"So, John, what happened to you?"

I tell him the same thing I told the receptionist. "It was just a stupid accident," I add. "I wasn't paying attention to where my hands were, and those box-cutters are so damn sharp."

"Yes, they are," he says, drying his hands and slipping into a pair of fresh latex gloves. "All right, let's see what the damage is." He peels away the gauze pad, several large, dark spots on the white material, but it isn't soaked or anything. He makes thoughtful noises as he examines the edges of the wound and I wince as he pulls it open to gauge the depth, fresh blood welling up.

"You're lucky," he says. "No tendon or arterial damage, just muscle. You're going to need, oh...thirty stitches or so, and a couple weeks of light duty at work-"

I can't help but chuckle as I imagine telling Mr. Finch that I can't kick ass and bust heads because I have a doctor's note. Dr. Clark arches an eyebrow at me. "Not going to happen," I explain. "This job is important and there isn't anyone else who can do it. I'll try to take it easy, though."

"Try hard," he urges. "If you rip out the sutures, it'll just take longer to heal and leave a bigger scar."

"I don't really care about scars," I say, showing him the heel of my right hand, where the glass from that mirror sliced me up.

He squints as he peers at the nearly healed wound. "That looks like it should have had a few stitches, too. Another accident?"

"Yes. I'm...rather clumsy."

He gives me a long look, but says nothing as he lays out his tools - the curved needle, the thin black thread, the forceps, the gauze, the anesthetic, the disinfectant. I flinch as he injects lidocaine into the wound, but the anesthetic acts quickly and I feel the pain fade away, like someone turning down the volume on the radio.

I'm not sure when my ability returns, but I suddenly realize that I can feel him, his emotions like a calm, warm cocoon around me. There's an underlying thread of confusion, though, and flickers of doubt, which only strengthen when he glances at my face. He washes away the fresh blood before pouring the disinfectant over my hand. As he threads the needle, he casts another darting glance at me, and I have a few moments to consider my answer before he even voices the question.

"Have we met?" he asks. "You seem familiar, somehow. Your eyes...and your voice..." Anyone else and I would be surprised that they remembered me, but not him. He'd encouraged me to quit drinking, he'd even offered me work doing odd jobs around his house, but I was drunk and homeless by choice; I wasn't ready to be rescued.

"I've been in here a couple of times," I say. "About a year ago, I had a bottle broken against my head."

"Oh, my God, you're _that_ John," he says, stopping and just staring at me, the needle forgotten in his hand as his gaze travels down to my shoes before jumping back to my face, and I feel relief and joy from him. He smiles at me. "Looks like you're doing well."

I can't help but smile back. "Not bad, actually. I quit drinking and got a job."

"Right, opening boxes," he says, a shadow of suspicion and worry darkening those bright emotions as he pulls over a stool and takes a seat. "I wasn't aware that box-boys could afford six hundred dollar suits." He begins to stitch me up, and while I don't owe him an explanation, I feel bad for being the cause of the darkness inside him. There are so few truly good people in this world, when I find one, I want to protect them.

"I'm not a box-boy," I say. "I'm working security for some rich guy. He does something with computers, I think; I don't pay much attention to that. And sometimes he has me run errands, do odd jobs...open boxes, stuff like that."

"Sounds like a good job, then," he says and ties off his current suture before raising his eyes and looking into mine. "Just make sure you can face that mirror each morning."

"I can," I tell him. "For the first time in a long time, I can."

He's relieved. He finishes with my hand and wraps it in gauze and an ace bandage.

"Thanks," I say as I rise from the exam table.

"Hold on, let me write you a prescription for some pain medication."

I hesitate as he peels off his gloves and washes his hands again. "No thanks," I say. "I'll make do with over the counter stuff. I can't work if I'm taking narcotics - wouldn't be safe."

"You really should take a few days off, at least." I just shake my head. He sighs. "Well, I tried. It was a pleasure seeing you again, John. Take care of yourself."

"Thanks, Dr. Clark," I say as I shake his hand, something I rarely do. The physical contact of skin on skin is like gripping a live wire, feeding his emotions straight into my body. I feel kindness, joy, hope, thankfulness - good feelings - but they're still foreign, they still push my own emotions to the side, living within me like squatters in an abandoned building, and I want them out. I draw back, pausing a moment to regain my equilibrium, and that's when I hear a crash and a frightened scream from the front of the clinic.

"What was-"

"Stay here," I tell him, reaching under the back of my suit jacket and drawing my weapon as I press my back against the wall beside the door. The grip feels awkward in my hand, what with the numbness and bandages. I guess I'll have to shoot with my right for a while. Luckily, I'm fairly ambidextrous. I shift the gun to my uninjured hand and ease the door open, peering out into the hall. It's empty.

I slip out, checking behind me before I extend my perception down the hall. I feel fear, a cold, black terror, probably from the receptionist. I hope so; it means she's still alive, and the vibrancy of the emotion means she's uninjured - pain bleeds the life out of feelings. I sense someone else, too, an angry, desperate presence, with just enough hate and fear lurking beneath the surface to make them really dangerous.

I slink forward, gun down at my side, and hear a man's voice, low and hoarse. "Money, all of it. Hurry up. Pills, too. Now, bitch!"

I peek around the corner, into the receptionist's area. He's about six foot, two hundred pounds, mid-thirties, holding a large, hunting-type knife. She's on her knees, her whole body trembling as she pulls handfuls of plastic pharmaceutical company sample packs out of the drawer and drops them on the counter.

"What the fuck is this?" he demands, grabbing a handful and throwing them at her.

"We're not a pharmacy," she says, cringing back as he makes a threatening gesture with the knife before starting to stuff the plastic packs into his pockets.

I step into the room. "Hey," I say and he whips around, pointing the knife at me. I keep my gun at my side, hidden from his view. "You really shouldn't do that."

He looks me over, his surprise fading as anger and greed rise to the surface. He steps toward me, away from the receptionist. "Money, now. And that jacket."

"No," I say, amused at the confusion that blossoms inside him. Amateur. He's never had anyone resist and isn't sure what to do. What he does next is the wrong thing. He takes another step toward me, the knife coming into reach. I grab his right wrist in my left hand and jerk him off balance, my right knee slamming into his gut and doubling him over. As he sucks a great, desperate gulp of air, I press the barrel of my pistol to his forehead.

"Drop the knife," I say, my voice low and calm. It's a trick I mastered while working for the Agency - a soft, quiet voice tends to confuse people, especially when you're kicking the shit out of them. The knife drops to the carpet and I kick it away. I pull the gun back, grab him by the collar of his shirt, and slam his head into the wall. He slumps to the floor, groaning before going silent and still.

The receptionist is staring at me, her eyes wide and face pale, as I tuck my gun away. Her fear makes my chest ache, because it's not directed at the thief anymore, it's directed at me. "You should call the police now," I tell her. I step out into the waiting room and reach into my pocket, pulling out the last of the cash Mr. Finch had given me. It's eight or nine hundred, and I lay it on the counter without a second thought. "Thanks for the help," I say, holding up my bandaged hand, and I leave.

I don't blame her for being afraid. She'd just had a traumatic experience and I had a gun - in all, not a good afternoon for either of us - but it still brought back _those_ memories, the ones that drove me the strongest to drink. There is nothing worse than seeing fear in the eyes of the one you love, than feeling it grate against your skin, a sensation like chewing broken glass. I'll do anything to keep from feeling that again, even if it means never letting anyone get close enough to love me.


End file.
